Down Comes The Night
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: Bela had her mark where she wanted him. At least, she did, until the elder Winchester barged in and bollocksed everything up ten ways to goddamn Sunday. (Dean/Bela. Oneshot.)


_A/n: This is literally years later than I planned, but uh, better late than never? XD HUGE thanks to my wonderful SPN betas, **jdl71** & **nagi_schwarz** , who are total gems and wonderful editors. :D_

 _This is the next one is my series of Dean/Bela fics where they keep ending up saving each other and accidentally catching feelings despite their best efforts. Reading the previous three is not necessary, though this one does tie in relatively significantly with #3, and marks a big Feelings Turning Point for these two knuckleheads, so it might be worth your time (in order, 1: "Trust Issues", 2: "Now And Then There's A Fool Such As I", and 3: "A Dark Heart Is Beating"). I have plans for several more fics following this, but zero concept of WHEN that will happen, so in the meantime, please enjoy. :)_

 _ **Warning:** references to Bela's canon child abuse/assault._

* * *

 **Down Comes The Night**

At first, Bela didn't call for weeks, and Dean didn't notice or care—they usually went for a while without hearing from her. The past couple months of unexpected cases together had been an anomaly.

Eventually, though, they'd needed to consult her thieving expertise for a case. She didn't answer when Dean called, which was nothing special, until half an hour later when she called Sam back instead of him.

When it happened again a couple months later, he realized she was officially avoiding him.

And he didn't care, he swore to himself that he didn't, _he didn't_. Except he kept thinking about the last time they'd been around each other—when she saved him from dying in a twisted dreamscape in his head made by a _gift drømmer_ and she had seen his raw edges, exposed and jagged. It actually bothered him that she couldn't face him after that. _Her_ , of all people.

But he'd never admit it out loud.

"You okay?" asked Sam as they walked into Bobby's house, shrugging off jackets and boots. Sam pocketed his phone after another text from Bela.

Dean realized he'd been scowling and making a fist. "Yeah, fine," he said quickly, releasing his curled fingers.

"Because you've been acting weird ever since Bela tipped us off about the ghost case last week."

Dean shook his head. Count on Sam to be nice and observant exactly when Dean didn't want him to be. He shouldered past his brother without comment and greeted Bobby instead. Thankfully, Sam just rolled his eyes, dropped the subject, and let them all get down to business.

"It's called a relic house," said Bobby, sliding a book with curling pages across the desk toward Sam and Dean.

"A relic house?" Sam echoed, scooping up the book to get a closer look.

"They've been around about as long as hunters have, and hunters have been tryin' to shut 'em down just about as long." Bobby frowned. "They're stuffed full of all kinds of nasty—vamp teeth, hex bags, cursed objects, spell books—whatever piece of supernatural could fetch a profit or hurt someone. Usually both."

"People are idiots," Dean said.

"Yeah, how do they think it's _not_ dangerous to house all this stuff?" said Sam, flipping through the old records book.

"Money," Bobby grunted.

Dean shook his head. "Like I said: idiots."

Bobby nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Most of the relic houses have been found out and burned down decades ago—Rufus and I took care of one in Oklahoma, in oh, eighty-six or so. Last one I ever heard of, your dad took down in the nineties."

"But you found another one?" Sam glanced up from the faded, old book.

"Rufus got wind of one that's still standing," said Bobby. "He's tied up in Louisiana but figured we could look into. I've got to stick around here to run hunter support this weekend for Garth. You two got this?"

"What do you need us to do?" asked Dean.

He'd heard vague rumors about relic houses before, though nothing concrete. The idea of finding one to take out was kind of awesome—he imagined it'd be hella satisfying to destroy a host of supernatural goods and get them out of hapless, greedy hands.

Bobby scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Dean. "This is the location, as far as Rufus knows. Check it out, see if it really is a relic house."

"And if it is?"

"Burn that shit to that ground."

* * *

Bela passed the shoddy gateway three times to make sure she hadn't been followed before she drove down the winding dirt road, finally pulling into a secluded lot outside an old warehouse in a large clearing. Truly, if she hadn't had GPS coordinates, she wasn't sure she would have found it otherwise. Still, just to be safe, she parked at the back of the unassuming warehouse, deep in the shadows, right beside her contact's posh silver Mercedes.

She inhaled deeply as she walked to the back door, enjoying the thick scent of pine needles and earth. Bela wasn't sure if she needed to knock, since Cyrus was already here and knew she was coming, but reckoned it polite all the same to give him some warning. She opened the door without waiting for a response.

"Hello?" she called brightly, putting on the persona this meeting required. "Cyrus, dear?"

The interior was dreary, and somehow not at all what she'd expected. She hadn't thought she'd see grisly monster limbs in baskets or anything, but the way everything was packed away in boxes—from ancient, carved wood things to plain cardboard—seemed at odds with what they contained.

"Over here," Cyrus answered.

Bela pulled on an excited smile and hurried to meet him on the other side of the warehouse. He stood in front of a table covered with trinkets—jewels, amulets, bits of this and that. Shiny, expensive, valuable bits.

 _That's more like it,_ she thought.

"How are you, darling?" she asked warmly. When she was close enough, she leaned in to give him a kiss. He kissed her back, though she couldn't help noticing it wasn't enthusiastic as usual.

"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" Cyrus wondered, dark eyes scanning her up and down.

"Not at all. Your directions were perfect." She kept on smiling, hoping she could soften his mood. She hadn't taken six months working her way into his life to have it all fall apart now, right when she was _finally_ here.

"Good," he said, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket.

"So, what do you want to show me first?" she said, ever the excited girlfriend. Her oversized earrings jangled with every movement. Annoying, but she was used to it by now. This version of herself was into chunky jewelry.

"Before we get started, my pearl…" He cocked his head. "Have you seen my Bastet talisman anywhere recently?"

Bela frowned and shook her head. "No, why?"

Cyrus hummed thoughtfully. "You know, at first, I thought it was carelessness that caused that talismen to go missing. I'd simply misplaced it, I thought. It would turn up in an unlikely place, I was sure. Same with the Ring of Themis. It was small. It could have happened to anyone."

Bela held her features as natural as she could—looking a little confused, just listening. Silently, her heart rate spiked and she started taking note of the warehouses' exits. If he was on to her...

"Then, when my wendigo claw dust was gone from its usual place on my shelf, and I thought, 'This is a troubling pattern'."

 _Damn_. She thought he hadn't noticed that one—she'd only needed a pinch to prove she had access to it, and she'd put it back, but apparently not soon enough. This was going from bad to worse. She had to fix this immediately, or all these excruciating hours of playing the doting, chipper, supernatural-aware girlfriend would be for naught.

"Still, small enough items," Cyrus continued. "And, over long a period of time. Nothing to be concerned about. Life happens, right?"

He reached out and laced his fingers through hers, gently toying with her hand. Chills raced up her arm and down her spine. A strange, muted thumping noise sounded somewhere outside.

"What was—" Bela began, but Cyrus cut her off.

"But you know how paranoid and suspicious I am, sweetheart," Cyrus went on, his gaze drilling into her. "What with my occupation, and all. One cannot maintain his grandfather's relic house, one of the last on the continent, without being a little suspicious of everyone, hmm?"

Bela swallowed, not liking one bit where this was going but determined to ride it out. The thumping noise outside stopped.

"So I had security cameras installed." His tone shifted from sickly sweet to ice cold. "Imagine my surprise when I saw _you_ taking a bottle of my precious Van Van oil, right out from under my nose."

Her gut clenched. Okay, admittedly, that had been a foolish, impulsive grab. She knew the stuff fetched a price and it was just _sitting_ there in his damn spice cupboard for months. For all his knowledge of supernatural artifacts, it was astounding the wealth he was squandering right under his nose.

"Cyrus…"

"Your fingers seem to be awfully sticky, Melony. Or is that even your real name?"

He gripped her hand hard and yanked her close, slamming her wrist against the table without letting go.

Bela gasped. "Cy, stop! You're hurting me!"

With his other hand, Cyrus reached under the table. "You're a thief, Melony. And if there's one thing I cannot abide, it's a thief." He pulled out a small machete. "Tell me, do you remember what the punishment was for thieves in the olden days?"

* * *

When they drove up to the old warehouse, Dean squinted at it the moonlight, searching for some sort of sign that this was the right place. Of course, if it'd been kept secret for a few decades, the owners weren't exactly going to advertise what it was.

He shut off the car and they climbed out. "Well, this is supposed to be it," Dean said, looking up at the shabby warehouse.

"Doesn't look like much," remarked Sam, zipping up his jacket against the chill in the night air.

Dean shrugged. "Probably shouldn't, right?"

They trudged across the dirt and gravel. From afar, Dean could see the front door was covered in half a dozen padlocks, so he cocked his head to the side to indicate they should circle around and search for a back entrance first. Sam nodded as a coyote howled somewhere far off, deep in the woods.

"Dean." Sam stopped, his voice low. He pointed up at the slim line of windows high up on the side of the warehouse. They were grimy with age, but a faint light glowed behind them.

"Someone's home," Dean growled. He eyed the old fire escape ladder attached to the wall. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

Sam agreed, but when they stood at the base of the ladder—high enough neither could reach without a boost—Sam stared at Dean, while Dean stared at Sam.

"Dude, that's gotta be a hundred years old. I'm not climbing up there," said Sam sensibly.

"Well, I'm _definitely_ not," Dean shot back. It looked solidly attached, but Sam was right. It was old and rickety.

"We're also not just going to barge in there, guns blazing," Sam said firmly, correctly guessing Dean was thinking of doing exactly that as the alternative to climbing the thing.

"Suggestions, then?" Dean replied sharply.

Sam clenched his jaw and, with a sigh, held out his fist. Dean rolled his eyes and followed suit. After three rounds of rock, paper, scissors, it was decided Sam would risk the derelict fire escape to get a look inside.

Dean smirked triumphantly until Sam stepped into his hand, Dean boosted him up, and he was struggling to support Sam's weight. He grunted and puffed.

"Geez, Gigantor—"

"Shut up and hold still."

Once Sam had a hold of the bottom rung, he gave it a few jerks and yanks, and the whole ladder creaked and moaned. Rust flakes rained down and Dean blew them away from his face.

"Well?" Dean barked, straining to hold his brother up.

"It's kinda sketchy, but I think it'll hold. The bolts are still good."

"Hurry up," said Dean, huffing and wobbling. He exhaled in relief when Sam hauled himself up and away from him.

The fixture trembled and creaked with every move Sam made, and Dean cast a worried look at the whole thing, immediately regretting the decision to let Sam go up. But as much as the ladder protested, the bolts securing it at the top didn't budge.

Sam wiped his sleeve against the nearest window, and craned his neck so he could peer through it.

"Anything?" Dean prompted.

"Yeah…" said Sam, then he cursed soundly.

"What? What is it?"

"Um, Bela's in there."

 _"What?"_ Dean barked, and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead in frustration. "Damn it, of _course_ she is."

Who else would be eager to profit off of a place like this? He could just picture her, humming to herself and picking out nasty artifact after nasty artifact like she was at the damn grocery store. _It's always about money._

"Shit—and some dude is holding a machete on her," Sam reported. He started climbing down.

Dean's picture of Bela immediately turned into a horror show. His heart walloped into his throat. He snatched his gun from the waistband of his jeans and ran.

* * *

Bela's blood ran cold and she tried to tug her arm out of Cyrus' solid grasp, but he held her fast.

"Cyrus, please," she said desperately, her mind racing, trying to sort a way out of this mess. She seized on an idea and started crying. "Please, I had no choice—they were going to kill me, Cyrus! You have no idea how scared I was!"

Cyrus shook his head. "Stop lying."

"You have to believe me," she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I didn't want to—I never wanted to steal from you, and especially after I...Cyrus, I _care_ about you!"

He held his stony, ice cold glare, the machete poised over her wrist, but he made no move to follow through with his threat, so she kept on crying.

"I should have told you—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It was supposed to be just one little job, but I fell for you, and I couldn't leave, and they made me take more…" She sucked in a breath to steady herself. "We can get it all back, I promise. We can make them pay and we can be together, no more lies."

Something in his expression cracked, softened, just a tiny bit. Bela slowly reached out with her other hand to gently cup his cheek, and he let her.

 _The best way to a greedy man's heart?_ she thought. _Offer him more riches with a side of sex and revenge._

"Please, don't hurt me—I'll explain everything. Just let me go," she begged softly. "We can figure this out. I need your help."

The hardness in his eyes melted and Bela's heart rose. She had him.

At least, she did, until the elder Winchester barged in and bollocksed everything up ten ways to goddamn Sunday.

* * *

"Put it down!" Dean bellowed, gun aimed at the lanky dude with the slicked back hair.

Bela gasped and jerked, but the lanky guy with the machete didn't let her go. His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, waving the machete in his direction.

"You have two seconds to drop the machete," Dean barked. "Or I'm filling you with lead."

" _Dean_ ," Bela snapped. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Lanky guy glanced between them, still stunned, machete raised.

"Saving your ass," Dean replied. Was she seriously concerned about that right now?

"My arse doesn't need saving," Bela bit out, keeping an eye on the machete. "Least of all from you. Cyrus and I were just coming to an arrangement."

Cyrus spluttered, "What…what..."

"I said drop it!" Dean yelled and fired high over the guy's shoulder. Cyrus finally let go of the machete and it clattered onto the table, sending sparkling jewels clinking to the floor.

Sam appeared at Dean's side, gun drawn. "What's going on?"

"Your brother cocked up—" Bela began, but cut off when Cyrus shoved the table into her, knocking her down. He bolted the opposite way and Dean tore after him, Sam hot on his heels.

Cyrus made it to the back door first. He slammed it shut with a bang. Dean turned slightly to hit it open with his shoulder, but instead crashed against it. Pain radiated through his arm and he let out a fiery curse. Cyrus had managed to lock it just in time.

"Move!" said Sam, and gave the door a mighty kick. It didn't budge.

"Front door!" Bela called, picking herself up off the floor and clutching her midsection.

Sam took off for the front while Dean hopped behind a massive chest and fired a couple rounds at the back door's lock. This time when Dean kicked the door, the smoking metal gave way, and he stumbled out into the chilly night air.

The woods surrounding the clearing were thick and dark; Cyrus could've gone in any direction and hidden himself well. Dean eyed the pair of cars parked nearby, watching for a shadow to indicate if Cyrus was hiding.

Sam hurried around the corner, panting.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "You?"

Dean nodded at the cars and started towards them, gun still drawn. Sam fell into step beside him, then quickly and softly moved away in a wide circle behind the cars. But as they drew near, Cyrus wasn't between them or under them. Sam pulled out a flashlight and together they searched the interior of the cars, then jimmied open the trunks, but Cyrus wasn't there.

Sam stepped back, puzzled. "Why wouldn't he drive out of here?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply and the sound of glass shattering came from inside the warehouse. _Because he's not done with her._

He ran into the warehouse. "Bela!"

Cyrus and Bela wrestled on the floor among the broken table and jewels and glass shards. She reached for the discarded machete, blood trickling down her hairline, and Cyrus kicked her in the side, sending her sprawling hard into one of the shelves.

Dean took aim and shot before Cyrus closed in on her again. Cyrus screamed, bloody hands flying to the new hole in his arm. Sam and Dean got between the pair of them, Sam keeping his gun on Cyrus while Dean knelt down beside Bela.

The last hit had knocked the wind out of her, but she didn't look seriously injured. "Damn it, Bela," Dean mumbled, ghosting his fingers over her hair. She gasped in large gulps of air and he quickly pulled his hand back.

"Is she okay?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, she's just—"

Sam yelped. Dean spun and coughed as red powder assaulted him. Cyrus scrambled up, Sam stumbled back wheezing, and Dean blinked furiously, trying to clear the powder from his eyes. Cyrus was a dark blur—Dean shot, and missed.

Cyrus swung and something sharp slashed across Dean's arm; he cried out and red splashed through his sleeve. Dean kicked, but Cyrus dodged. He spun, almost tripping over Bela who was groggily trying to crawl out of the way. He wanted to shoot again but was afraid to hit Sam. Then a dark blur came flying at him with an angry shout and something silver. Dean pulled the trigger and the dark blob fell, red pooling out on the cement at his floor.

"D-dean—" Sam coughed, waving his arm to clear the air as he staggered towards Dean.

Tears stung his burning eyes and poured down his cheeks, but Dean's vision mercifully began to clear. On the floor, Cyrus gasped and fell still. Bela exhaled shakily, her hands pressed to her chest. Dean stepped back and slumped against the nearest shelf.

"I got him," he croaked. "I got him."

* * *

At the motel, Dean settled onto the unoccupied bed beside Bela and cracked open the first aid kit. After he'd cleaned her cuts—enduring plenty of curses, complaining, and general bitching— she'd fallen asleep. He took care of Sam's minor injuries next before he tended to himself. She didn't stir until Sam left to go get them some food.

"Welcome back, princess." Dean glanced up from dabbing antiseptic on the cut on his arm. It wasn't as deep as he thought, though it still stung sharply.

His eyes still burned like he'd stayed up for three days straight without blinking and rubbed them across a sandy beach, but at least he could see again. Sam had stopped coughing, too, thankfully.

She lifted her head. "Where am I?"

"The Sunbird Motel," he told her. "Room 42."

"Right." Bela groaned.

"You remember what happened?"

"Bastard tried to kill me," she grumbled, then sat up suddenly. "Wait, did I dream that you destroyed the relic house? _Please_ tell me I dreamed that."

"Ashes," Dean replied flatly. He flicked another cotton ball into the trash and reached for the roll of gauze bandage. "I'm fine, by the way." He pointed to a rash that had seared across his cheeks as a result of Cyrus' mystery powder.

Bela flopped down, buried her face in her pillow, and let out an angry moan. "Oh, you _apes_."

"Wasn't gonna let it stand, Bela, you know that." He wrapped a couple layers of bandage around his forearm. At least it wasn't stinging as badly now that it'd been cleaned. "Those things are too dangerous."

"Do you have any idea how long it took to find one that was still standing?" she complained. "How _long_ I had to work Cyrus over to get him to take me there?" She touched her fingers gingerly to the bandage at her hairline and winced.

Dean shrugged. "Don't know, don't care."

Bela let out an irritated huff and sat back up. She carded her fingers through her hair and hissed as it snagged on her hands. She examined her fingers, cleaned of grime and glass shards, some bandaged.

Dean fussed with his own bandages as the silence stretched. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, and didn't miss the way she kept her head carefully turned away from him.

"You ever gonna look at me?" he asked bluntly. There was no point beating around the bush with her. Not after everything they'd been through to this point.

She studied her scabbed palms. "What do you mean?"

Dean snorted. "Don't play dumb, Bela. Ever since the whole _drømmer_ dreamscape thing, you've been weird. You've actually gone out of your way to avoid talking to _and_ looking at me."

"Dean, I didn't realize you were so sensitive." She flashed him a weary smile, but her tone lacked the usual teasing edge.

He was too tired for their usual banter and snarky dance, and despite the effort she was putting forth, she clearly didn't have the energy for it either.

"C'mon," he said, not as sharply as he should have. Dean tossed aside the roll of bandage and focused on Bela. "Stop screwing with me for once. What's your deal? You really that scared off by what you saw? I'm too damaged for even _you_ to handle, is that it?"

Her head stayed slightly bowed, her eyes tracing exhausted lines over her bruised hands. Dean held his tongue, determined to wait her out. Finally, she tucked her lank hair behind her ear and opened her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For what I...for what the _drømmer_ put you through."

Dean let out a scoffing noise. "C'mon—you know I'm a piping hot mess. That shouldn't have shocked you." He paused. "Thought that was something we had in common."

Bela chanced a peek at him, then, as if to check if he was messing with her or not.

"And to be honest, I thought you were stronger than that," he added.

Her cheeks colored. But instead of falling into comfortable territory and saying something cutting right back, she looked like she wanted to apologize again.

"I keep...thinking about it." Her eyes even glimmered with tears, and Dean suddenly couldn't stand it. This was worse than her not looking at him at all.

"Don't you dare," said Dean, his voice a low growl. "Not pity, not from you—ever."

Bela turned away, back to studying her fingers.

Dean waited a beat, then aggressively stuffed the medical supplies back into the first aid kit. He shouldn't have asked—he shouldn't have said a damn word. He should have just let her go on avoiding him and being weird. He hated that he actually _cared_ …

"Dean, I—I don't know how to make us even," she said, almost desperate.

"You saved me, I saved you—we _are_ even," he grumbled. He didn't know why it kept happening. They'd moved past habit into recurring trend. One he couldn't decide if he hated or kind of liked, and _that_ was infuriating beyond words.

"You know what I mean."

"What, emotionally?" Dean gave a dry laugh. "Sweetheart, I'd have to cut my own heart out with a spoon to match you emotionally." He snapped the first aid kit shut and chucked it onto the bed.

Finally, _finally_ she glared at him like she was supposed to, and he almost exhaled with relief.

"Besides," he continued. "We both know you're not willing to give up something intensely dark, deep, and personal to anyone, least of all me, no matter what shit you saw in my head." He shoved his chair back and stood.

"What if I was?" she said suddenly.

Dean stopped. She actually looked serious—like she meant it. He had no idea how to react, how she wanted him to react. Take her up on that offer? Ignore it? Insult her and get a beer from the fridge?

"You're not," he said flatly.

He knew her—for as much as he didn't want to, as much he told himself he didn't, he knew her pretty well. He knew how they worked, or rather, how they didn't. They fought and cut each other up and ignored that maybe they actually cared somewhere deep, beneath it all.

Bela letting him in on something deeply personal was never, ever on the table and never had been. But was her guilt over what she saw inside _his_ head—Jo, his dad, all those horrible whispers—really strong enough to let him peer inside _her?_

"What if I did?" Bela didn't take her eyes off of him.

Dean hesitated, then planted himself back down. "Fine, then go ahead," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, calling her bluff.

She wanted him to brush her off, he thought. She expected him to retreat, too uncomfortable to let her share anything, and then she'd keep the upper hand. They could stay exactly as they were, and they'd be metaphorically even because he'd let her win.

He was curious to see how she'd react when he did none of those things.

Bela swallowed and stared down at her hands again. Dean tried not to let a smug smirk onto his face—she didn't have the guts to actually get real and vulnerable with him, and they both knew it.

"He abused me," she said quietly.

Dean froze. _Is she actually…?_

"That guy from the warehouse?" he asked softly, afraid to spook her into not continuing, afraid to _let_ her continue.

Bela shook her head. "My...father."

Her voice was scared at first, like she couldn't believe she was saying the words out loud, but they grew firmer as she went. She couldn't quite meet his eyes.

"And she...my mother didn't stop him. No one believed that the chairman of the board could be so evil. They thought I was a spoiled little girl crying out for attention."

She exhaled, shaky and delicate, like she hadn't said those words aloud in years. Like she hardly dared to, even now. It felt like a dream, and for a second, he wondered if it was.

"That was the deal I made. The chance to get out came along, and I took it with both hands. They were killed and I was free. I became someone else without... _that_ in her past. And I never looked back."

Dean waited, afraid to breathe, afraid that even the slightest flutter would destroy this extraordinary moment of personal insight into Bela. His mind raced—linking her story with the information he'd gotten from Rufus all that time ago. All his assumptions.

Everything he knew about her shifted.

When she didn't continue for several long moments, he couldn't help asking, "Why're you telling me this?"

Bela inhaled and sat up straight, finally meeting his eyes. "I told you. We had to be even."

Dean didn't know what to do. Was this how _she_ felt after the crap she saw in his head? Off kilter and reeling from knowing something so dark and personal? Part of him was tempted to reach out and thank her for being vulnerable with him for one shining second. Part of him was shocked that she'd actually followed through and told him something real.

It didn't feel like things were even at all for him, however. He watched her, silently begging for a clue about how to proceed.

"And that's that," she said, easy and normal and without a hint of the emotion she'd just showed him. She squared her shoulders. "Now we can put the entire nonsense behind us. Back on neutral ground. And next time, I'd appreciate it if you _didn't_ completely destroy six months of hard work."

Dean cleared his throat. Something had moved between them, something huge and fundamental, but he wasn't going to look too closely at it. Not today—maybe not ever, if he could help it.

"Playing some scumbag's girlfriend is hard work, is it?" he countered, following her lead back to familiar ground. Somewhere normal and easy.

"Yes, in fact," she said airily. "And now it's all a pile of smoldering ashes, thanks to you and your rash, idiotic hunter principles."

"Idiotic? This is the thanks I get for saving your life. Again." He leaned back in his chair and shook his head, as if really offended.

"I had it under control."

"Like hell you did," he shot back, but without any real bite.

They were still arguing when Sam came back with bags of takeout, and still going at it when the three of them settled at the motel's little table. Sam rolled his eyes a lot and told them to can it more than once. Even so, Dean noticed the way Sam almost smiled a few too many times, but he brushed it off.

So what if the arguing was more fun than aggravating this time? So what if they understood each other more than ever before? It didn't matter—it couldn't matter. It was Bela, and he was Dean—the thief and the hunter, forever at odds.

Dean stabbed a dumpling with his fork and Bela showed off with her chopsticks. As far as he was concerned, they were back to normal. As normal as the pair of them could be, which suited him just fine. He stole a glance at her and was genuinely glad she was safe.

(And he totally wasn't keeping track or anything, but that was technically three times now he'd saved her life, even if she chose to remain stubbornly ungrateful about it.)

 **-end-**


End file.
